There's a heady exhilaration blooming in my chest and a broad, triumphant smile on my lips and I know I look almost too happy, but I can't control my beaming, and I am absolutely bursting to tell you the news:
That my essay was perfect, that I nailed the presentation, that the biochem final was a walk in the park.
And, oh, God, I want to tell you so many things and that I love you and that I want you and I want to feel your arms around me, just barely containing my wild excitement. I want to laugh with relief and feel your lips curve up in a smile against the skin of my neck.
And I love you,
I love you,
I love you.
It's these moments when I am absolutely on top of the world that I want to share with you. I want you to laugh and tease me and call me a nerdy little bookworm and your baby girl and then kiss me all over so that I am pulled in a thousand directions at once. I want to absolutely unwind in your arms, but you hold me so tightly that I'm never afraid of falling apart.
Sometimes I forget that you're gone.
My chest, only moments ago so light and full, grows heavy as lead, and my throat closes up, and oh, God, don't cry. Not here. Not now.
I am alone in my room when I finally let go. With my face in my hands and my back against the door, it is like you've only been gone a few minutes, like I could open the door and see your retreating back. Like I could chase after you.
Please don't go.
I only want to tell you.
Oh, God, just to tell you.